The moment I walked through the door I could tell something was wrong. You said "He's guilty, his shirt even says it!" I really didn't understand what you were talking about. Then your wife asked "Do you ever use these pans?" That's when I realized what this was all about. I denied it, of course, because I was still processing what exactly I was being accused of. Nonchalantly, I said "Not really" and continued to load the dishwasher like nobody's business. Your wife seemed to believe me, but I recall some subtle comment you made about willing to bet $100 it wasn't true, completely out of context of course since I probably was unaware of what you had been talking about before I entered the front door. But, even though you never mentioned it specifically, I know exactly what was on your mind. It's true roommate. I am guilty. I was the one who scratched up your pots. In a moment of forgetfulness, I thoughtlessly scooped out my spaghetti with a fork. After I washed it out this afternoon, and started to put it away, the silvery streaks caught my eye. I let out a groan...thought about it for a second, and stuck it back in the corner. I'd just as soon as forget it ever happened. You were right all along, roommate. My shirt said it all. "Guilty!" I guess Denver and I have something in common now. The treachery doesn't end there, however. You know that chess game we're playing? Yeah, you are not going to win that game. Just trust me on this. You're losing that game, this is a fact. I'd be willing to bet $100 on it. By the way, have you noticed the vodka spaghetti sauce in the fridge? You know, the one that magically appeared in the fridge last night, and since this afternoon, now is missing about a cup? There's your evidence. Perhaps I should get rid of it tomorrow, before you catch on. I just want you to know, if you ever read this, it wasn't intentional. And I apologize.